


crash the cemetery gates

by Trojie



Series: the ghost of you [6]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, Touring, Voyeurism, incestuous voyeurism is that even a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8931736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Gerard is supposed to have some fucking control.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another Gerard-POV alternate scene from _could I? should I?_

_Oh my god, you guys were out of control tonight_ is one of those things that Gerard used to think was a compliment, when he was younger and stupider. 

(So, like, a year ago, tops.)

Performance is all about illusion, and the biggest illusion is control, because all Gerard has to do is say something, express a wish, ask a question, hold out a microphone, and every person in the place will do their best to sing along with him, scream in time, wave their arms and dance til they bleed, and he knows what that looks like. The crowd will do tricks if he commands it to, but at the same time, the crowd is a snarling beast and Gerard is just a man with a whip and a chair and a commanding look and, when you get right down to it, some kind of a deathwish. 

He's been charged onstage before, at shitty little gigs and house parties and clubs where the stage was just one end of the floor, he's been engulfed by the pit, put his head in the lion's mouth, and maybe that can't happen any more in this brave new world of high stages and security that they live in now, but the fear of it's always there. So many of them, and so few of us.

And yet he keeps on getting up here, couldn't stop if he tried.

Every gig is three hours of trust fall, because they all just gotta go on faith that the notes will fall where they expect them to. Bob keeps the beat and Mikey lays down the rhythm and Frank puts out the wall of noise that forms the melody, and Ray, psychic fucking Ray, somehow ties it all together, and Gerard just sings along

And it's not just a matter of practice, because it's not like they play this shit exactly the same every night, exactly like they did on the album.

It's some kind of fucking alchemy, is what it is, and all Gerard has to do is sing along. All he has to do is react, tonight just like any other night. He can't control this, no-one can control this. All he can do is trust the others, and control himself. That's rule number one for Gerard now. Control yourself.

When Frank comes over, like Frank always does sooner or later, Gerard realises he's been waiting for it. They're stinking, burning hot under the stage lights and Frank for some reason always dresses like he's either going to the fucking South Pole or the prom on stage, boots and hoodies and button-down shirts, but it feels so good when they press together. Frank's head lolls on Gerard's shoulder and Gerard can feel every chord he strums because the headstock of Frank's guitar keeps banging up against his hip. 

He's going to put his arm around Frank's shoulders, when Frank starts to slide basically face-first down his body to stop with his mouth against Gerard's crotch, and after that it just seems natural to put his hand in Frank's hair. Y'know, because what good is life if you can't make a dirty little fucking joke, and the fans go wild for this kinda shit, and any publicity is good publicity, and whoa okay - 

Frank was supposed to wrestle out of this, and punch Gerard in the shoulder, and - 

But he's staying bent at the waist like Gerard's holding him there (he's not, he's _not),_ keeps chugging along on his rhythm line and opening his mouth against Gerard's suddenly very hard, very hot dick, which is slowly crushing itself in his stupid trousers. Gerard can't help how his fingers spread in Frank's hair, and Frank gasps against him, moans, and Gerard looks up and out and anywhere but down and his eyes catch Mikey's almost against his will.

Mikey's been hiding by the amplifier stacks all night, a skinny little shadow with his hair over his face and his glasses glinting in the stage lights enough to make his expression mostly unreadable, but right here, right now, in this second, Gerard has the right angle and Mikey's face is _shocked_. 

Gerard comes so fast it's like a punch in the face - he fucks up the verse he was in the middle of, god knows what the fuck he was saying or what noises he was making because he sure as shit doesn't know. It's all he can do to stay standing, and even then he has Frank to thank for the fact that he manages. 

As he rasps his way back into the song he's not sure, can't untangle why, what got him so hot so quick - if it was Frank mouthing him while still playing guitar or if it was Mikey's wide eyes and how he licked his lips like he didn't even know he was doing it and how he was obviously hard as a rock in those obscene jeans he likes so much before he abruptly turned away. 

Gerard isn't supposed to notice things like that. 

Gerard is supposed to have some fucking control. 

He frets about it, as his jeans chafe sticky, wet, drying, gross and he moves with the music and tries to ignore it, and fails. It makes him antsy, makes him watch the crowd hard, worrying someone's gonna get trampled, makes him watch the rest of the band and the techs hovering in the flies, and the sound guys far down the back of the venue -

\- and that means he notices when Mikey finally actually ventures out of his little Gollum-cave next to Bob's kit. 

His first thought is, _fucking finally_ , and a stupid giddy smile threatens to plaster itself on his face which is not helpful for the whole singing thing, but it's so good, watching Mikey _perform_ again, instead of just playing along. Then Mikey looks up and their eyes catch again and this time it's Gerard licking his fucking lips, because that look on his brother's face is heart-stopping, hotter than hell. 

Mikey keeps coming forward and Gerard, breathlessly, for a second, thinks maybe this is turnabout for all the times he's invaded Mikey's space on stage and this time it's Mikey who's gonna get all up in his face when he's not ready for it - but instead Mikey goes for the front, all the way up to the foldbacks like he hasn't done all tour, and then forward again and - shit, fuck, they've got fucking effects tonight. The timings are burned into Gerard's brain - the crew gave him an extra half-hour rundown on it, because of all of them he's the one who spends the most time on the edge up there.

He waves at Mikey, gesturing to try and get him to move away from the fucking pyro pot he's standing right fucking over, but Mikey just takes another goddamn step in the wrong direction. Somehow Gerard's still managing to remember his lyrics as his earpiece comes awake with people yelling at Mikey, but the kid won't fucking move.

Fuck this. 

Gerard would swear he's never covered quite that much distance in that little time in his entire life. There's nothing to Mikey, he's all ribs and hoodie and hipbones, so it's embarrassingly easy to hook both arms around his waist and haul him away from the edge. Somewhere in the boiling fury in his brain Gerard registers that their mom is gonna fucking kill him if Mikey goes home looking this fucking starved, but that's not the point. 

He dumps Mikey next to Frank, who's a sensible goddamn distance from anything explosive, and keeps on singing, glaring as hard as he can at his brother like _I fucking dare you to move, fucker, I'll fucking end you if you so much as take one goddamn step -_

And then the pyro pot goes off and Mikey's face freezes in sudden realisation, sudden horror.

Gerard isn't sure if he's fucking furious that Mikey could let himself _forget_ the goddamn safety briefing for the fucking _explosives_ , or just relieved that his brother doesn't actually have a deathwish.

***

Things settle down after the show, go back to normal. Gerard's hands are all smeary with Sharpie from signing autographs while still sweaty from the stage, and he gets purple fingerprints all over his can of soda from the diluted ink.

Mikey's drinking beer. Gerard kind of doesn't like it but at least it's not the vodka he clearly thinks he's being really fucking sneaky about. He's sitting on the floor hunched up like he's feeling sorry for himself, and Gerard gets a little pang of something about that because maybe, yeah, okay, maybe he yelled at the kid a little too hard earlier.

He was fucking scared out of his mind, though. And he won't apologise for making sure Mikey's safe. But he does sit down next to him and sling his arm around his shoulders, because if ever there was a textbook needs-a-fucking-hug pose, Mikey's doing it now. 

Mikey leans into him, and sighs deep in his chest, settles. When Ray comes by with another beer, trying to play casual, Mikey takes it, but he drinks it slow and bored, and keeps it away from Gerard, on his other side so the fumes rising aren't right in Gerard's face. It's a kind thought, but it's still a little too much. Gerard gets up for a piss rather than have to breathe in sour temptation. 

When he gets back, Mikey and Frank are both gone, and Ray just shakes his head and shrugs at Gerard's questioning expression. 'They took off,' he says. 

'You wanna crash in here tonight?' Bob offers. 'I'm gonna guess Iero won't be.'

'Nah,' says Gerard, shrugging. 'It's still early. They won't go all fucking night.' He rolls his eyes, grabs another soda, and flops onto the floor next to Ray. 'So, are we gonna apple-pie his bed or what?'

Fake it til you make it, right? Pretend you don't want that beer, Gerard, pretend you plan the shit you do onstage, pretend you know what the fuck you're doing offstage, pretend you don't want to suddenly develop super-hearing so you can listen in on Frank and Mikey doing the nasty next door. Gerard has been faking it all the way from 'we should start a band' to 'okay, we need to talk about merchandising'. He faked it and they seem like they've made it. He's got this. 

It takes about ten minutes for his brain to float an excuse to go next door. He tells it - himself - no.

It takes him five more minutes to talk himself into, out of, and then finally back into getting up. He even pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as an excuse. Ray's eyes narrow, but he doesn't say anything. Gerard does not deserve Ray. 

Gerard does not deserve any of the good shit in his life, and he knows that because he doesn't even pause and think about what he's doing when he slips out of the hotel room into the corridor. His hand is already putting the cigarettes back and fumbling for the key card to the room next door. 

He tries to be as quiet as he can, going in, but they're right there, right fucking there with Frank pinning Mikey up against the opposite wall by the crotch with his _face_ , and Mikey's eyes snap to Gerard's as soon as the door closes behind him.

Gerard freezes, and Mikey acts like something caught in a trap, frantic, scrabbling at the wall and at Frank, but Frank just holds on to him. 'Ssshh,' he says, loud enough for Gerard to hear, and starts to unzip Mikey's fly with his fucking teeth. 'Wish I could have done this on stage.'

Does he mean he wishes he could have blown Gerard properly or does he mean he wishes he could have blown _Mikey?_ Gerard doesn't care. What happened then happened and what's happening now is happening, and this …

Gerard can only control himself. He can't control anything else, and he sure as shit can't control Frank. He watches Frank tease his lips down Mikey's cock, or at least, he watches the back of Frank's head sink, and Mikey's hips twitch, and the way Mikey's entire body is shivering, and tries desperately to, well, to control himself. 

But Mikey shakily reaches down, touches Frank's mouth, and Gerard can't stop himself, lets out a tiny, weak noise that's the sound of his willpower fucking deflating. 

Frank opens up and sucks Mikey down in one smooth, hot move. Gerard croaks 'holy fucking shit, Frankie,' the words coming straight from his libido without detouring past his brain first. Mikey's head hits the wall behind him with an audible thunk and Frank takes him by the hips and rocks him. 

It's a performance. But it's always a performance with Frankie. Frank Iero looks fucking good on his knees and he knows it, onstage and off. He works Mikey like a pro, coaxes him along with wet, soft noises that drive Gerard insane, make it impossible to not say the words crowding the inside of his head. 

'So fucking pretty,' he breathes when Frank pulls his knees in so he can reach higher, get a better angle to pull Mikey deeper, because it makes his tiny ass tuck up and his back straighten and Mikey fucking melt into him, and Gerard doesn't draw porn but he'd draw that, that uncharacteristic juxtaposition of lines. 

Frank's rolling Mikey's hips, fucking his own face, and Mikey's moaning, eyes clenched shut and hands on Frank's shoulders, he's being a gentleman maybe or maybe he just can't - can't anything, and Gerard can sympathise with that. 'Oh god, so good, so fucking good, both of you,' he croaks softly, because this is a performance, because he's lost all his control. 

Mikey's starting to hitch, breathing and hips both jerky, almost painful. He's got to be close, so fucking close. Gerard can't see any skin except the sliver of white at his hips where his shirt rides up and his pants drag down, his view is censored by Frank's chaotic stage-sweaty hair, but he doesn't need to see anything more than Mikey's teeth sunk into his own lip to figure that out. 

'Frank, please, c'mon, c'mon -' Gerard says, soft and pleading because Mikey can't or won't so Gerard will beg for him. 

Frank backs off and shifts his hands, and before Gerard figures out what he's doing Frank's twisted on his haunches to look Gerard in the eye, face dripping and Mikey shuddering and aftershocking all over the wall. His knees are visibly trembling. So are Gerard's, maybe, going by how it feels like the earth is shifting under him.

Frank licks his lips, head pillowed against Mikey's hip and Gerard can see _everything_ now, every twitching, wet, blood-flushed thing. 'You wanna help me clean him up?' Frank asks, and his voice is so rough. Reminds Gerard of the old days, the old old days, when they had a shitty PA borrowed from someone's high school or dad or whatever and their microphones used to just stop for no fucking reason and they had to scream to be heard. 

Gerard never used to say no on stage, not to any fucking thing, not to fucking up his voice or his head or his body. The memory of the old Gerard takes a step forward towards Frank and Mikey, and then the new Gerard grabs himself by the throat. 

_Rule number one. You will control yourself, because you can't control anything else._

He can't stop himself making fucking noises though. 'Fuck, what am I -' gets out before he can bite down on the words. He fumbles for the doorhandle rather than risk the rest of them escaping, and forces himself out.

The door clicks shut so fucking anticlimactically quietly behind him, but then again Gerard is supposed to be over slamming doors in his wake.

The hotel corridor is only half-lit and it's cold. The street outside is colder, when Gerard finds his way down and out there. Gerard walks and walks and walks with his hand clenched around the phone in his pocket and burns his way through the rest of that packet of cigarettes, even though he squashed most of them with his ass up against that door, and tries to think. 

All he can come up with is, he's not sorry. And he won't fucking apologise. 

His phone doesn't go off, but eventually he knows he's gotta go back or it's gonna be fucking Search and Rescue and sniffer dogs and everything going up to DEFCON1, if it hasn't already. He can't just run out on the band, he knows that. He can't just run out on Mikey. Not that he ever, ever would.

So he goes back. Climbs the stairs instead of taking the elevator and hopes like hell that he can just sneak back in, and in the morning this will have already been smoothed over, just by the passage of time, the awkwardness moved past, like sleeping through a hangover. Maybe he can just crash, and they can just move on. 

Of course, when he gets in, Mikey immediately sits up and turns the light on. 'Hey,' he says, and he looks worse in the low glow of the bedside lamp than he does under stagelights somehow. The bags under his eyes stand out like fresh bruises. 'Thank fuck, man, I was getting worried.'

'I had my phone,' says Gerard, a little too defensively. Except when he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at it, his heart sinks. 'Which - is dead. Fuck. Sorry, dude. I just had to clear my head, that's all.'

He takes a breath, bites the bullet. 'I wasn't out getting wasted, if that's what you were worried about.'

Mikey doesn't even bother trying to hide that that's exactly what he was fucking worried about. Gerard kind of can't blame him. 'Sorry,' he says, though. He probably shouldn't be. 

In the absence of anything else to say, anything else to do, Gerard starts to shrug out of his clothes, walks across the room and pretends he doesn't see how deer in the headlights Mikey is, and climbs into bed. Pretends this is any night, any normal other night, and there hasn't already been too much skin bared between them.

'That,' he says into the pillow, like he's reading a script, 'was a long fucking day.'

Mikey hits the lights. 

'Thanks, bro,' says Gerard. He makes a show of settling into his sheets, getting comfortable. Keeps tight rein on his breathing, lets it slow, lets it even out, pretends to sleep and lets Mikey pretend to sleep too. Maybe they can both fake it til they make it on this one.

This is a performance.

This is a trust fall.


End file.
